“I tell you,” said our informant, a good enough fellow, and one not prone to be violently startled, “he scared me, as he flitted past.  His eyes were like saucers, his hair wet and streaming behind him, his face white as a chalk-mark on Professor Cosine’s blackboard.  Depend on it, that boy’s either going mad or has got into some desperate scrape.”

“Pshaw!” growled Mac, “you were drunk,—­couldn’t see straight.”

“Mr. Innocence was returning from some assignation, I suspect”, remarked Zoile.

“If he had been, you’d have encountered him, Mr. Zoile,” said Mac, curtly.

But I noticed my chum did not like this new feature in the case.

After this, until the time of my receiving the lad’s invitation, I neither saw nor had communication with Clarian, nor did any others of us.  If he left his room, it was solely at night; he had his meals sent to him, under pretence of illness, and admitted no one, except his own servant.  This fellow, Dennis, spoke of him as looking exceedingly feeble and ill; and also remarked that he had apparently not been to bed for some days, but was mixing colors, or painting, the whole time.  I went to his door several times; but was invariably refused admittance, and told, kindly, but firmly, that he would not be interrupted.  Mac also tried to see him, but in vain.

“I caught a glimpse of that boy’s face at his window just now,” said he, one day, coming in after recitation.  “You may depend upon it, there’s something terribly wrong.  My God, I was horrified, Ned!  Did you ever see any one drown?  No?  Well, I did once,—­a woman.  She fell overboard from a Chesapeake steamboat in which I was coming up the Bay, and sank just before they reached her.  I shall never forget her looks as she came up the last time, turned her white, despairing, death-stricken face towards us, screamed a wild nightmare scream, and went down.  Clarian’s face was just like hers.  Depend upon it, there’s something wrong.  What can we do?”

Nothing, indeed, save what we did,—­wait, until that pleasant morning came round and brought me Clarian’s note.  I could scarcely brook the slow laziness with which the day dragged by, as if it knew its own beauty, and lingered to enjoy it.  At last, however, the night came, the hour also, and punctually with it came Dr. Thorne, a kindly young physician, and a man of much promise, well-read, prompt, clear-headed, resourceful, and enthusiastically attached to his profession Mac tucked a volume of Shakspeare under his arm, and we made our way to Clarian’s room forthwith.  Here we found about a dozen students, all known to us intimately.  They were seated close to one another, conversing in low tones, and betraying upon their faces quite an anxiety of expectation.  The door of the bedroom was closed, the curtain was lowered, and the only light in the room came from a shaded lamp, which was placed upon a small table in the recess to the right of the picture.